


A Hard Habit to Break

by nightfalltwen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Party, F/M, Infidelity, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightfalltwen/pseuds/nightfalltwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ministry Christmas party is a dangerous place for a tryst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hard Habit to Break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvscharlie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvscharlie/gifts).



**Title:** A Hard Habit to Break  
 **Author:** Nightfalltwen  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Ron/Lavender (established: Ron/Hermione)  
 **Rating:** NC17  
 **Kinks/Themes Included:** Infidelity, office sex  
 **Other Warnings/Content:** None  
 **Word Count:** 3015  
 **Summary/Description:** The Ministry Christmas party is a dangerous place for a tryst.  
 **Author's Notes:** Written for the 2014 Kinky Kristmas fest at Daily Deviant. Happy Christmas to luvscharlie! I had lots of fun writing this. Many thanks to my beta, cryptaknight.

****

*****

**December 2005**

The thing about office Christmas parties, is that the crowds are big and everyone expects a certain amount of jolly interactions. Well-wishing is a must. The occasional, tipsy, cheek kiss, which is then followed by chortling at the resulting blush, is generally welcome. There's also the aspect of networking. Even the lowliest peon has the opportunity to bring up an idea with the boss because at Christmas parties the office walls are down, so to speak, and everyone is talking to everyone else. Alcohol flows a bit freely and ears are more willing to listen just as lips that would normally stay quiet are more willing to talk.

Ron does not like this aspect of Ministry life. He never has.

He enjoys working cases with Harry and capturing Death Eaters. He enjoys the thrill of the hunt and the action. The tedium of an office party and all the politics that seem to be involved holds no interest to him. This is the stuff that Hermione likes. This is where she gets to have passionate conversations with lawmakers and show off what she's learned and what ministry laws she's trying to change.

Ron feels more like arm decoration at these functions than he does anywhere else. He's not there to mingle. There's nothing he wants to change in the Auror department, aside from doing away with some of the paperwork, but that's not something that will change. Ever. So he doesn't speak to anyone because, to put it very bluntly, he's there for the food and to let Hermione do her thing.

And she does do her thing. She mingles and schmoozes and presents passionate arguments and it's all less than exciting which leads Ron to overindulge in the champagne. It's been three glasses. Maybe four.

He excuses himself, mentioning a headache and needing to sit down, and barely gets a nod.

Things haven't been difficult with Hermione. Ron is sure that he loves her and that he doesn't regret marrying her. Maybe after some time he'll stop feeling like he isn't up to her standards. She's smarter than he is. She knows that she's smarter than he is and sometimes he feels like she doesn't think this is an equal partnership. Just two people who are staying together because they'd always thought that they should. Of course the moment that this thought crosses his mind, he feels shameful for thinking it.

They have their good moments.

They do.

So when he steps into the darkened office, closing the door behind him, he can't help but swallow down the guilt that threatens to tear him apart.

"You look terrible," Lavender says, perched on the edge of the desk and dressed in what could pass as a Father Christmas outfit if it had more fabric involved.

"Gee, thanks." Ron sinks into one of the chairs, hand over his face. "It's easier to interact with people when I get to arrest them afterward," he says. "I should have stayed home."

"Well you did have two options. Stay home and be miserable for staying home with a wife that comes home later in a strop because you stayed home. Or attend the party, be miserable and hide in an office until it's time to go home where your wife will be in a strop over your vanishing act."

Ron drops his hand and looks up at Lavender, opening his mouth to argue against what she said, but he knows it to be the truth. Either way he was probably going to end up on the sofa. Part of him is alright with this; he doesn't mind the sofa because it gives him a chance to think. He's not usually introspective about his life, but after two years of dating and five years of marriage, he thinks about his future a lot. Nieces and Nephews are being born left right and center; Harry and Ginny already have a leg up on them and his mother keeps making these _comments_ about it. It's almost as though his prick and Hermione's womb were designed for the sole purpose of giving her more grandchildren.

He isn't even sure he wants kids.

But he doesn't dare say as much. The calamity that would come from such a comment is more than he cares to think about.

"I should get back to the party." He moves to stand but Lavender reaches out with a bare foot, pressing her toes against his thigh and keeping him in the chair next to the desk.

"You came here for a reason," she says. "The same reason you always come here during Christmas parties."

She's right. He doesn't even try denying it because there's a reason why he chose that particular office and a reason why he doesn't care that it's mere steps from the festivities. It's why he wasn't surprised when he found her sitting in the room. Because they always follow the same steps to the same dance every Christmas and Ron finds he is comfortable with becoming a creature of habit. Part of him is miserable that no one notices. And he wishes that after fourteen years he would get used to the idea that no one really notices him. But he isn't used to it.

He grumpily acknowledges that if it were Harry this situation would be an entirely different monster.

People would notice.

Lavender reaches for him tentatively, leaning far enough that she is hunched over to cradle his face between her hands. "You're always in the same mood," she says softly, her forehead touching his. "Don't think about all the things that are making you unhappy. There are no responsibilities here. Not to me, not to anyone out there."

She always knows what to say that draws him out from beneath the dark cloud where he often finds himself trapped. With a deep breath, he covers her hands with his. There's a long moment where they just sit there in the silence. It's calming and he briefly wonders if this would satisfy him for the night. He knows that it wouldn't. Moments of silence rarely satisfy him because it lets him think too much, something that most people have decided he doesn't do. He knows that she senses this because her toes and foot slide across his thigh and down between his legs, lightly rubbing against his cock and it's that brief bit of friction that is his undoing.

When he kisses her, it reminds him of Quidditch. It reminds him of winning that damn game in sixth year and the heady sensation of victory. Ron's hand slides to the back of her neck and he drags her closer, so much so that her foot moves away from his cock and she slips off the desk. To Lavender's credit, she doesn't break the kiss and her arms slide around his shoulders as she settles onto his lap.

The chair creaks. Ron isn't sure if it'll support their weight.

Her tongue slides into his mouth and he forgets what he was thinking about.

Her lips are soft, warm and demand things of him that have nothing to do with responsibility or intelligence or being the grown-up he isn't sure that he has become. It takes him back to the first time this happened and when he'd been in the midst of what he could only now remember was a blind panic at the number of people _looking_ at him. She'd been a comfort. The sex had been a release and she'd whispered that perhaps this was not the life he needed and if she'd had any say, she would see him gone from it before it swallowed him whole.

She's always setting him free.

He has to play a role every other time in his life but here, in this office, on this day, he has no role.

Well. He does have one.

Ron's hands slide up her torso, pausing when his thumbs meet the hem of her very short top. Instead of pushing the fabric up, he merely hooks his fingers in the neckline and pulls it down. Her breast bounce slightly at the movement and are slightly pushed up by the bunched fabric beneath them. He drags his mouth from hers and first presses a kiss to her neck, lips brushing the puckered scars that she never tries to conceal. He avoided them once, pretending they weren't there and that got him a slap and an admonishing lecture to not ignore something that she never can. So he acknowledges them. The scars are part of what makes her Lavender now.

His lips move slowly across her skin, hands cupping her breasts and lifting them just a little more. The pad of one thumb draws circles around a nipple as the other is drawn into his mouth, tongue worrying it at first before pressing it lightly against the back of his front teeth. She makes a little squeak and wriggles in his lap and thus encouraged, Ron repeats the action with the other nipple.

If he were more eloquent, he would tell her something poetic about the feel of her breasts in his hands. But she is lucky that he isn't. Quite honestly, he feels that being romantically wordy during sex is just awkward. But he likes her breasts. He likes them a lot. They're pleasantly distracting in their weight and in their bounce.

So much so that he doesn't even notice that she's undone his fly until her fingers are moving coolly against his hardened cock.

"Fuck..." he whispers, jumping in surprise.

"We're getting there," she replies with a laugh.

"Your bloody hands are freezing," he grits out, though he makes no move to stop as her thumb slides back and forth across the head.

Lavender smiles in that devious way that no one really ever sees except him. Her hand is suddenly gone and he can feel her shift on his lap. Without looking down he knows that she's touching herself. He can smell it, but more so he can see it on her face. Her eyes go a bit dark and her lips part, breath coming in soft pants. And just when he thinks she is going to come, the movement stops. She lifts up her hand, slick fingers being offered to him.

"Warm them for me?" she asks rather coquettishly.

It's not the first time he's tasted her, though it is the first time he's tasted her without burying his head between her thighs. His tongue slides between her fingertips, teeth scraping lightly over her knuckles and he loses himself in the flavour. His head is swimming much more than it ever did with the champagne he'd drunk before he arrived.

There's a rattle at the door which causes them both to jump. Ron is fast on the draw and flings out his wand arm, casting a stronger locking charm. The doorknob rattles a couple more times before the person on the other side moves on. It's not the first time they've almost been discovered and it probably won't be the last. Ron takes it as a cue to pick up the pace.

He lifts Lavender from his lap and nudges her back toward the desk, sliding his hands under her skirt. To his surprise there are no knickers for him to remove. A groan catches in his throat. It is partially brought on by the lack of clothing, which he had not been expecting, but also by the fact that she's slid her hand back into his trousers. Her fingers, now warm, are curled around his cock, sliding along the length in a steady rhythm.

They could do this. They could just get each other off with just fingers and hands. They've done it before. Three Christmases ago it had just been two fingers pumping inside of her as she draped herself over a chair, squealing when she came. She'd stroked him into orgasm easily enough, though he's never truly felt as satisfied with a hand job as he does when his cock is buried deep inside of her clenching body.

Lightly pushing away her hand, Ron turns Lavender around, bending her over the desk. He rucks up her tiny red skirt and slides his hands over her ample hips and plump arse. He doesn't kid himself. He's always been attracted to her arse. His fingers slide between her legs, fluttering across the slick flesh while his other hand makes short work of the trousers he's wearing. When they're down around his ankles, he grips his cock, pressing it against her until she goes on tip toes and the angle is perfect.

She moans in such a thrilling way once he's buried deep inside of her.

Ron starts slow at first. He draws out until he's almost completely separated from her before surging his hips forward against her. But the slow, gentle thrusts don't last very long. It isn't them. They don't make love. They fuck. He watches as her arms stretch forward to grip the other side of the desk, bracing herself. Soon he's snapping his hips against her frantically, each smack making her gasp and arch her back. He can feel a tightness in his back and all of his muscles straining as he tries to keep control.

Suddenly she's let go of the desk and grabbing his hand, dragging it forward and pressing his fingertips against her clit.

Ron doesn't need any further urging. He also doesn't need a map. He's learned long ago what she likes and his fingertips flick back and forth rapidly until her gasps turn to soft cries. Sometimes Lavender screams when she comes and there was this one time he forgot and was sure that everyone had heard. Most of the time he remembers to put up silencing wards, but when he forgets he just slides his palm across her mouth just as her whole body goes stiff and starts to shake.

She screams into his heart line and his life line.

He thrusts deep, his body giving a great shudder as he spills into her.

They stand there for a long moment, Lavender collapsed over the desk and Ron still holding onto her hip with one hand. Finally he slides out of her, grabbing his wand to vanish away the white pearls of come that start to slip from her. He bends over and presses a kiss to her bum before tugging the skirt down over it. She straightens up and adjusts her top to cover her breasts.

He feels more relaxed in more ways than just the one. Still a bit drunk, but more relaxed than he had when he arrived. They're not the sort to talk much before or after. This is not an affair of words and he doubts that it ever will be. Instead she just straightens his shirt and does up his belt before kissing his cheek. Ron removes the spells from the room, flicks one at her to clean up the mess he left behind, and then watches her go all red skirt and creamy white thighs. Down the hallway he hears her greet someone, laughing and somehow convincing them to join her for a drink. Grateful that she's cleared the corridor, Ron leaves the office hoping that it'll be cleaned before the person who works there returns.

An office smelling of sex is probably pretty distracting.

"There you are," a voice says from behind. Ron turns and allows himself a smile. Hermione joins him and winds her arm around his. "I thought we might go home."

"You've talked to everyone you needed to talk to?" he asks, tucking one hand into a pocket and wishing he could have found the loo so he could have given both of them a wash. Hermione nods.

They turn towards the Floos in the atrium, getting into a queue. Hermione rests her head against his forearm and they shuffle forward in the line. Ron feels like he _should_ feel guilty. He's just come from a thorough shag to a wife that clearly loves him. He doesn't know why the feelings aren't there. They just aren't.

"I think this will be our last Christmas party," she says thoughtfully, glancing up at him. "I do hope you made the most of it and that you enjoyed yourself one last time."

Ron stops and that's when the guilt catches up to him in a tsunami-like wave. His heart thumps loud enough that he's sure everyone in the Ministry can hear it. But he's too afraid to say anything. He can't say anything. His eyes meet hers and there's something there. He knows that she knows. He doesn't know how long she has known, but he knows that she knows. She doesn't have to even say it. The expression on her face is enough.

Before he can respond to her, to beg for her forgiveness and try to explain himself, Hermione tilts her head and looks back toward the Floo. "I just feel that it will be rather difficult to find time to attend Christmas parties next year." She lets go of him and reaches for the powder, stepping inside the large fireplace.

"Busy?" he manages to croak out, wishing that his voice didn't sound like a croak.

Hermione holds out her hand, the light glinting off the wedding band on her finger. "Well... Ginny tells me the first year of parenthood is trying. Ours will only be about four months by then. I wouldn't feel right leaving him or her alone for a silly Ministry party. Would you?"

In a flash of green, she is gone. Ron isn't sure if the cacophony in his ears is the sound of the fires or the roar of his pulse. Someone pushes him from behind and gestures to the empty fireplace. Briefly Ron considers going elsewhere to cower in his panic and try to sort out his thoughts.

But he is a creature of habit. And returning to Hermione is truly his habit. Not a bad habit, but a habit nevertheless.

One he has never dared to break. Not permanently. And now? Not ever.


End file.
